


inside your blinding light

by marquis



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28165962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: “A pleasure to see you, Sebastian,” Yosh says, tipping his cap. “What brings you to California?”“I am trying to remind myself of my roots,” they say, the best approximation of the thoughts swirling around in their head. “This seemed an appropriate space.”(A history of Sebastian Woodman and Yosh Carpenter.)
Relationships: Sebastian Woodman/Yosh Carpenter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	inside your blinding light

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is for jaz @waveridden, who got me started on yosh/sebastian a couple days ago and has been encouraging me throughout the writing process. title from "would that i" by hozier, because of course.
> 
> content warning for some body horror; this fic does include depictions of yosh carving sebastian, who is made of wood and not harmed by the ordeal, but it might be uncomfortable for some folks and i feel like i should say something. this does include a very brief non-graphic mention of eyes.
> 
> also, i didn't even open the wiki while i was writing this. everything i know, i heard secondhand. i cannot guarantee this is lore-compliant, and in fact would be surprised if everything here checks out.
> 
> enjoy! <3

i.

They meet in the forest, surrounded by redwoods and songbirds. Sebastian is resting amongst the roots. Not quite sleeping, exactly; they don’t do that anymore. But it’s an approximation of it, allowing the shadows of leaves to drift across their face like daydreams.

They are not expecting to see anyone. They had left Charleston without saying a word, without telling their teammates where to find them. So Yosh Carpenter is a surprise, standing over them with a backpack on his shoulders and a furrow between his brows.

“A pleasure to see you, Sebastian,” Yosh says, tipping his cap. “What brings you to California?”

Sebastian could say a great many things to that. _My teammates see someone when they look at me,_ they might say, _and yet I worry I may have more in common with the roots beneath our feet._

They knew how to be human once, had the words in their mouth and the movement in their hands. But it sometimes feels as though they need to learn it all over again, to remember how to translate the grand misunderstandings and the feelings of wrongness within their chest into something palatable for a stranger.

“I am trying to remind myself of my roots,” they say, the best approximation of the myriad of confusions. “This seemed an appropriate space.”

Yosh doesn’t seem to notice the weight of the words, or perhaps he chooses not to ask more. “Might I join you?”

This had been intended as a solitary exploration. But Sebastian has been alone for days, listening only to the sound of mid-morning sap and mushrooms sprouting from the dirt beneath their feet. It has not enlightened them any more to the person they are meant to represent, the soul they are told lives within them.

Perhaps they had known Sebastian Townsend once, but that person is lost to them now. It’s not clear what has been left behind; perhaps companionship will shed some light on the ordeal.

“Of course.” Sebastian shifts to make space on the ground beside them. “Have a seat.”

ii.

Springtime brings with it fresh sprouts, small pastel buds in undesirable places. A cherry blossom blooms on their shoulder; crabapples sprout from their elbows.

The process is not painful. They would not even notice if not for the wind, twisting their leaves this way and that. Even then there are those they would not notice if not for Yosh, who reaches out to run a hand over their head, apparently without even thinking of it.

“You’ve got something caught in your,” he starts, before trailing off. “Oh. It appears that _is_ your hair.”

“Or something much like it, yes.” Sebastian feels the twig sprouting valiantly from just over approximately where their ear should be, feels the start of a leaf between their fingers.

And Yosh, ever the utilitarian, pulls a pair of shears from his ever-present apron. “Might I?”

It is reminiscent of redwoods, of sunshine and shade-dappled skin.

“You may,” Sebastian says, leaning down and tilting their head just to the left.

Much as the growth went nearly unnoticed, so too does the clipping. Sebastian is dimly aware, in some distant corner of their consciousness, of a lack of a breeze where once they might have felt one. In its place comes the feeling of hands, rough and calloused and smoothing over the wood.

The bag of tricks not yet emptied, Yosh produces a square of sandpaper. He runs it over the spot with deft fingers and packs it away just as quickly.

“Apologies if I’ve overstepped,” he says, almost immediately. “Old habits.”

Sebastian does not have much by way of fingers. They do their best to feel the spot in question, smoothed over now. It is a motion they find themself repeating often in coming days, even as it becomes rough once more with new growth.

iii.

Yosh has practiced their face perhaps dozens of times. The models are littered around his workspace, smooth planes reflecting the glow from the fireplace. It must be terrifying, to be asked to craft something so intense onto something living; Sebastian would not know.

But whatever it is he’s feeling, his hands are steady now as they guide the knife against the wood. Sebastian can feel the way it grates against the slope of their nose, the planes of their cheekbones.

“Does it hurt?” Yosh murmurs, and it might be the first words he’s said in hours. Sebastian has lost track of time, concentrating so thoroughly on the work being done.

“It is difficult to describe.”

The words that come to mind are not their own; they come from memories belonging to the other Sebastian, the one they have not been in some time. They think of velvet, rubbed the wrong way between fingers; they think of rough stones against metal.

“Might you indulge me?” Yosh asks.

Sebastian looks at the furrow between his brows, the set of his jaw. He is not looking at Sebastian; he is looking through them. But the feeling is something like standing under the midday sun in the middle of July, of sitting too close to a campfire.

They wait until Yosh has finished the bow of their upper lip, until he is carving a seam. They wait until they have opened their mouth and taken their first breath, air moving through and out the branches that compose their ribcage.

“It feels as though I am covered in mud and clay,” Sebastian says, and the smile Yosh gives them is a quick, quiet thing. “It feels as though you are brushing it all away.”

Yosh runs his thumb across the smooth patch just under their eye. If they could, Sebastian might startle, might flinch; but Yosh is not finished with that part of them yet. He has not given them the gift of blinking.

“There is not so much clay left, my friend,” Yosh says. “You will be with us soon.”

As he works on their eyes, he finds a vein of sap. Yosh makes to get a rag to clean what he can; while Sebastian waits, it runs down their cheek and gathers on the tip of their chin.

iv.

Their first kiss is not an altogether unpleasant experience. Even so, Sebastian knows it’s likely not what Yosh might have expected, not something they may repeat. Overall, it is a delicate thing; Sebastian finds themself distracted over the idea of splinters.

Yosh holds their face between his hands, an artist and his masterpiece. His thumbs sweep over the soft wood of their jaw. His eyes hold Sebastian in place.

“We will have to do that sparingly,” Yosh says. “Perhaps after sandings.”

For all the world, Sebastian cannot quantify the feeling blooming within their chest. No memory of Sebastian Townsend’s, no memory of their own provides guidance on what words to say. Yosh waits for them anyway, ever patient.

“There is a songbird where my heart should live,” Sebastian says after a moment.

Yosh glances down at their chest. “We ought to let them out.”

He leans in to brush his lips against theirs again. It is as light as a feather, as soft as a cloud. Sebastian feels like singing.

v.

It becomes familiar to sit on the floor in the bathroom with Yosh standing over them. Sebastian’s face does not need that much maintenance once it’s finished, but their hair is another story, growing sprouts and twigs on a near-weekly basis.

Yosh never seems to mind the work. His knife is sharp and swift, as though he’s done this a thousand times.

“We ought to grow fruit from your curls,” he says. “The league might well appreciate a never-ending harvest of peaches and plums.”

“I imagine it would all fall off long before it’s ripe.” Sebastian glances up at Yosh and catches him smiling. “You’re better off posing me like a statue in your dining hall.”

“I’ve half a mind to do that anyway,” Yosh murmurs. He does not pause in his work; more kindling falls to the floor around Sebastian’s crossed legs. “I could keep you on a pedestal in my workshop, my little bonsai tree.”

The alternative, the reality they face, is much less appealing to them both. Sebastian understands very well that wooden arms pose a certain sort of weakness in solar eclipses. But then, even Yosh doesn’t have much protection from that.

“Or perhaps the window of my bedroom,” Yosh pushes on, and Sebastian can tell his work is almost done. The sandpaper is familiar against the wood of their hair by now. “I might prefer to admire you in the sun.”

Sebastian laughs, hand coming up to hide a grin. “You admire me plenty already.”

“That I do.”

vi.

A heartbeat is a deceptively gentle thing.

Sebastian knows its importance. They know the blood within carries nutrients and oxygen through the veins, to every other organ. But it is so _quiet_.

“It is more something to be felt than heard,” Yosh explains, and Sebastian wonders how he always finds the words to answer even the most absurd questions. “Might I?”

Sebastian is already so close to him, and yet Yosh pulls them even closer. He guides them to his chest until their ear rests over his heart. In the quiet of the early morning, surrounded by pillows and fabric, the sound of his heartbeat becomes all-encompassing.

_Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump._

Sebastian does not know how it is that all of Yosh can be contained in that singular rhythm, the reverberations. Sebastian brings fingers up to press against his wrist and find his pulse.

“How could I forget,” Sebastian breathes, a question that does not need an answer.

Yosh’s free hand runs up and down their spine. It feels like he could show them how it feels, could carve them open and craft a heart of living wood to push the sugars and starches around. They are a hollow thing, a wanting thing.

Sebastian has seen the way trees bend toward the sun, defying gravity in search of life. With their head pressed to Yosh’s chest, they feel the beginnings of understanding.

vii.

Knives and sandpaper are effective tools, but nothing has worn Sebastian’s skin so smooth as the pads of Yosh’s fingertips. Every ridge is as familiar to Sebastian as the pattern of their bark.

The touch is a welcome familiarity as they adjust. It’s hard to tell if the orange glow coating the workshop is due to the fireplace burning away, or to the hardened amber of their new eyes.

“You’ve always looked nice,” Yosh says, and Sebastian knows he means it, “but I do think these add something.”

“To say otherwise would be damaging to your own reputation, Master Carpenter,” Sebastian says.

They’d had some concerns about the installation. There was always the chance that the amber would not work, would not meet the demand of the wood that had sat there before. But other than the color, there doesn’t seem to be much difference.

Yosh is watching them closely. Not in the way that he does when he is working; that is a different kind of stare, a focus on the details of the wood and the sap. This, the way he cannot seem to keep his eyes still, the way they jump to take in every aspect of Sebastian’s face, makes something warm curl in their chest. They wonder if, now, Yosh will get to experience the same thing.

“Have you ever considered glasses?” Yosh asks, leaning back just a few inches to examine Sebastian’s face in full. “Not that you need them, of course, but they may emphasize the color.”

“You ought to make some frames for me, then,” Sebastian says.

They reach up to grab Yosh’s glasses from his own head, placing them on the bridge of their nose. To their surprise, the world looks different through them. It’s clearer, more distinct than it may ever have been.

Yosh must notice a change, because he arches an eyebrow in a perfect half-circle. “Is there something wrong?” he asks.

“I think I need a prescription after all.” Sebastian leans forward to press their lips against Yosh’s, a quick kiss that catches him by surprise.

“I’ll get started on those frames, then.” Yosh doesn’t move to take his glasses, but he does take a step back.

Sebastian doesn’t let him. They keep their hands on his hips and hold him in place. “Hold on a moment. Let me look at you a little longer.”

viii.

Yosh is not one to let his hair fall in his eyes. His work requires scrutiny, clear vision and precise movements. But it has been a long season, and perhaps everyday maintenance has fallen by the wayside.

It had seemed like a good idea when Sebastian offered to cut it. A natural progression, perhaps, or a chance to return the favor of a dozen evenings spent surrounded by fresh clippings on the tile floor of the bathroom. But now, Sebastian is caught considering the consequences.

“I am no artist,” they say, running their fingers through the long strands. They part like water, smooth and soft and so unlike the tough bark of Sebastian’s fingers. “This may be a mistake.”

Yosh turns to glance at them over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “Would you like to stop?”

A moment or two passes in silence as Sebastian considers, hands moving continuously in search of knots and tangles that do not exist. The work they might do will not be on par with Yosh’s own; but if Yosh doesn’t mind, perhaps it’s not an issue.

“I will do my best,” they say, picking the scissors up off the edge of the sink. “You cannot complain about the end result.”

It is quiet work. Delicate work. Sebastian does not know how Yosh can focus so intently on measurements and clippings, day in and day out. His hair slips through their fingers and fans out across the floor. Sebastian wants to collect it all and make something out of it, something of Yosh to keep with them; they wonder how often Yosh has thought the same thing about them.

“This is nice,” Yosh says. “I might prefer it to a hairdresser.”

Sebastian smiles. “I’ll just keep going, then; how do you feel about a bob?”

“I hear that’s very in vogue.” Yosh plays with the ends of the bracelets on his wrist, twists the string around his fingers. “Though I prefer braids, myself.”

Sebastian sets the scissors down and runs their fingers through his hair, tries to seek out any uneven cuts. It’s hard to tell after a certain point; they opt instead for taking Yosh’s comb, a sturdy wooden thing, and running it through. Yosh tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

They even try their hand at braids. And though the end result is not so neat and tidy as Yosh’s usual fare, he runs his hand over them and smiles.

ix.

The idea comes while they are watching Yosh work, seated on a bench beside him. He is finishing a commission, a custom rolling pin for someone on the Pies. It’s nothing Sebastian hasn’t seen before; they sit in on his work often enough, both to keep him company and to provide input when necessary.

As always, Yosh takes a moment to carve his own initials into one of the handles of the rolling pin. He does it with every project he’s ever made, a practiced motion he doesn’t need to think about. But it strikes Sebastian today, catches their attention.

“You haven’t done that with me yet,” they say, pointing to the marking with their fingers. “Why not?”

Yosh sits up, pushes his glasses up into his hair. He turns to look at Sebastian carefully, eyes roaming the face he made himself. “I suppose I haven’t.”

“Am I not finished?” Sebastian asks, tilting their head to one side.

“I am not sure it’s possible to finish a living being,” Yosh says, reaching out to run a hand up Sebastian’s arm. “You’ve got plenty of time yet to grow.”

Sebastian pushes on. “Am I not yours?”

The lamp on the work desk casts long shadows across Yosh’s face, makes him hard to read. “That is not for me to decide.”

It is a heavy silence that falls between them then, interrupted only by the crackle of the fireplace. For the first time, Sebastian is full to bursting with words they might say, with things they know Yosh would care to hear. It is an exhilarating feeling; Sebastian is surprised that they don’t start sprouting flowers, that they are not breaking apart into pieces.

“I would like to be,” they say, with a steadiness they do not feel.

Yosh tilts his head, eyes catching the light like stars. “Might I, then?”

It is an easy thing, moving to sit on the desk in front of him. Yosh pushes up the hem of Sebastian’s shirt and the knife is as steady as it’s ever been, pressing delicately into the hollow of their hip. When he runs his thumb over the initials afterward, Sebastian thinks of a summer breeze.

x.

Winter training is always brutal. There’s never enough sunlight to keep Sebastian’s energy up, and the cold outside drives out whatever memories of summer they might attempt to conjure. This Charleston seems particularly prone to heavy snowfall, and Sebastian is longing for the day the team relocates to the next one.

When they wander back to Sigmund’s door, the warmth within the castle is more than welcome. They trudge down the stairs to the basement, where Yosh’s room and workshop take up the bulk of the space.

Yosh is already in bed. This is much later than Sebastian is used to coming home; the Shoe Thieves have been pushing hard after the end of last season, on the off chance they end up against the Pods again.

But that’s not what Sebastian wants to think about. They pull off their jersey and exchange it for one of Yosh’s sweaters, draped over the back of an armchair. He barely even stirs as they slip into bed and under the covers.

Sebastian doesn’t sleep, technically. But they wrap themself around Yosh anyway, pressing an ear to his back to hear his heartbeat. Over time, the warmth of his body seeps into Sebastian. They can feel the sap under their skin beginning to move.

They wonder, idly, if that counts as a pulse.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me as leonstamatis on tumblr or @blink in the blaseball server. come say hi!
> 
> UPDATING TO SAY... @starfauna on twitter has made [art of sebastian woodman based on this fic](https://twitter.com/starfauna/status/1340933934104928259) and truly i am losing it. this is lovely and wonderful. i am going to stare at it forever and so should you.


End file.
